Jonathan Thornleigh, Earl of Sussex, nominal head of the family and inheritor of its vast wealth, was eleven; his elder sister, Lady Susan, was fourteen. The pair were orphans. They were not the first children of blood to find themselves parentless, but their situation was complicated by the fact that they had been raised in ignorance of their heritage, growing up above a music shop in Soho; furthermore, their murdered father had at his death entrusted the children to the care of a young writer and lover of music named Owen Graves.
The great families of England had been disturbed. Most of the dukes in the country could claim some sort of kinship with the Thornleigh family, and it was suggested to young Graves – a good fellow, but of no family at all – that it might be more fitting to bring up the children in one of their established, aristocratic households. Graves, uncertain of his capacity, also thought it might be for the best, but Jonathan and Susan would not leave him. So Mr Graves took on his shoulders the management of the young Earl’s great wealth, and to help him brought into the household an elderly, impoverished widow named Mrs Service, who had known the children since their birth. Graves also took on the care of the Honorable Eustache Thornleigh, half-uncle to the newly orphaned Jonathan and Susan, though a little younger than them both. Various dukes had offered the child a home also, but were secretly relieved when he refused them. Eustache reminded them too much of his horrendous parents and their disgrace.
Graves saw Thornleigh Hall rebuilt after a terrible fire, and bought the lease of a handsome building in Berkeley Square. He seemed to be discharging his responsibilities well enough and had since married himself and purchased with his wife’s dowry the little music shop where the Earl had been born. In the face of such ‘circumstances’, the housekeeper Mrs Martin managed very well indeed.
Mrs Martin had arrived in London three months ago, in the middle of February, and opened up the house in Berkeley Square. She set about airing the nursery rooms for Lord Sussex, Lady Susan and Master Eustache, hired two girls as undermaids, a kitchen boy and, after a lengthy correspondence with Mrs Service, an excellent cook.
The idea was that now Lady Susan was fourteen years old, it was time she acquired a little town polish. Graves wrote to the Duke of Devonshire for advice and he suggested that Susan attend as a day pupil one of the fashionable schools for young ladies in the capital; he recommended one based in Golden Square. His Grace also gave a hint that perhaps the young Earl should attend one of the better schools close to London. It was time the children got to know their peers and the world in which they operated.
Mr Graves took His Grace’s advice very seriously, and after talking it over with Mrs Service and Verity, his wife, the plan was made. They would spend at least two months in London. Jonathan and Eustache would take lessons in the morning to prepare them for the curriculum at Harrow or Eton. Susan would go to school and learn how to behave in a manner fitting to her rank. Graves would deal in person with the bankers, investors, creditors and lawyers who swarmed round Jonathan’s money, and Verity would accompany him, to make sure he didn’t mind it all too much.
The plan had gone terribly wrong. First of all, Graves’s wife had discovered she was in a delicate condition and began to feel the exhaustion that often troubles young mothers-to-be. Her physician advised her to remain in the country, but she insisted that Graves go up to London without her. Mrs Service would be mistress of the London house in her place and she would have peace in the country. Graves reluctantly agreed and the family came to town. Then, after only a fortnight had passed, their Sussex neighbour, Mrs Harriet Westerman, descended on them for a visit of unknown duration with her own two children, several servants and only half a day’s notice. Her sudden arrival shook up the whole household. She also seemed to be in a high temper. Her personal servants were discreet, but there were hints that Mrs Westerman had been arguing with her younger sister, Rachel. To crown it all, two days ago, Lady Susan had come home with a letter from the Headmistress of the Respectable Establishment. It covered a great many pages with complaints relating to Susan’s character and behaviour, and an assertion that unless she undertook to behave better in future she would no longer be welcome at the school. Mr Graves had spoken to the girl at length about the letter and Susan had refused absolutely to apologise for anything or return to Golden Square. Mrs Martin herself had heard the end of the interview, when the young lady had sworn that if Graves expected her to go back there, they would have to tie her up and deliver her like a parcel. The elegant furniture of Berkeley Square shuddered as she ran from her guardian’s office and slammed every intervening door between there and her own chamber at the top of the house.
Now, despite all of Mrs Martin’s best efforts on this Saturday morning, the general bad temper and confusion had made its way down into the servants’ hall. William, Mrs Westerman’s senior footman who had travelled with her, should have been helping to serve breakfast, but instead he was having a rather tense interview with Mrs Westerman’s maid, Dido, in one corner of the kitchen. He hadn’t been home last night, and he and the maid were sweethearts. Not so sweet this morning though. Mrs Martin would never have allowed similar relations between the servants under her authority, but these two served Mrs Westerman, so she could do nothing but hope they would not quarrel too loudly. The cook’s boy, in trying to eavesdrop, had left the sausages to burn, which led to a great deal of smoke and raised voices. Cook was trying to pack a hamper while asking everyone in earshot if they wanted kippers this morning upstairs and whether the children liked raisin-bread, and Mrs Westerman’s coachman was arguing with the groom about their mistress’s abilities as a judge of horseflesh. Into the middle of this turmoil Philip, senior footman at Berkeley Square and Mrs Martin’s right hand, came charging into the room, his face red and coffee spilled over the front of his waistcoat.
‘Philip, what on earth have you done?’ Mrs Martin felt her voice had come uncomfortably close to a wail.
‘Those damned children! Young Master Westerman always gets My Lord playing the goat,’ Philip said, pulling off his jacket and throwing it over the back of a wooden chair. Mrs Westerman’s coachman and groom turned slowly towards him and glowered. Any suggestion of an insult to young Stephen was an insult to them. Philip didn’t notice.
‘Simon, go and fetch a clean waistcoat from my room.’ He began to undo his buttons as the kitchen boy scampered out and up the backstairs, thudding all the way, and Mrs Martin took over the watch on the next batch of sausages. ‘Master Stephen teased My Lord into chasing him round the table while I was serving Mr Graves his coffee, then I swear Master Eustache just put out his foot to trip him as he came by. He goes falling into me and the pot goes flying.’ The groom and coachman turned back to their discussion. They felt no obligation to defend Master Eustache.
‘Onto Mr Graves too?’ Mrs Martin asked.
‘Oh yes. He shouted at them to sit still and went up to change.’
Mr Graves’s valet sprang to his feet. ‘You should have told me at once!’
‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’ Philip said. ‘Where is that damn boy with my waistcoat?’
Mrs Martin took a deep breath. ‘And the table linens?’
‘Covered in coffee.’ The boy came back, waistcoat over his arm and red in the face. Philip grabbed it from him.
‘I shall take up fresh linen,’ Mrs Martin said. ‘William, perhaps you could go and serve. Philip, stay here until you have recovered your temper. Dido, is your mistress come down yet?’
‘She is dressed and will be down as soon as she has finished reading her sister’s letter.’ There was a collective groan.
‘Enough!’ Mrs Martin said. ‘Do the work you are paid for. Behave as if you work in the chophouse and you may go and earn your living there. Cook, if those sausages burn too, I shall take their purchase price from your wages.’ She found the key to the linen cupboard on the ring at her waist and strode out of the room.
By the time Mrs Martin reached it, the Breakfast Room
was surprisingly quiet. Master Eustache was reading a book, but as Mrs Martin deftly removed and replaced the soiled cloth at the head of the table she thought she saw him look across at Lord Sussex from under his long dark eyelashes and grin. Jonathan, who would one day control a fortune to make him the envy of kings, was slightly flushed and staring hard at the table in front of him. He was a sensitive boy, eager to please, and hated it when Graves shouted at him. Stephen Westerman was chewing toast and sitting sideways in his seat to stare out into the Square behind him. Mrs Martin thought, not for the first time, that it was very sensible of Mrs Service to take her own modest breakfast in her room.
The door opened and Lady Susan entered, her back ramrod straight. She was shaping up to be a very pretty young woman, fair like her brother and with large blue eyes and clear skin, but quick and lively as a monkey. She had a talent for play-acting and loved to make the servants laugh with her impressions of their friends and neighbours. They were horribly accurate, but Mrs Martin had begun to try and persuade the staff not to encourage her. Susan would soon be entering the world of drawing rooms and assemblies, and her talents for mimicry would earn her no friends there. As soon as she saw that her guardian was not present, the girl seemed to relax a little and even smiled at William when he put down a plate in front of her and poured her tea. He winked at her, which Mrs Martin pretended not to notice.
‘Is there a kipper, Mrs Martin?’ Stephen asked.
‘I shall ask Cook to make you one, Master Stephen,’ she said, smoothing down the cloth.
‘Oh, may I have one too, Mrs Martin?’ Jonathan said.
‘Certainly, My Lord.’ The child blushed a deeper pink. They had been asked to address the children more formally now, and no one much liked the change, least of all the little aristocrats. Graves came back into the room, no stains of coffee visible.
‘And for me please,’ he said.
Mrs Martin nodded to William and took his station by the buffet as he left the room with the order.
‘I’m sorry I fell over, Graves,’ Jonathan said quietly.
‘I seem to have survived, Jon,’ he answered with a smile, then looked at Stephen Westerman and raised his eyebrows. Jonathan nudged him.
‘What? Oh, I’m sorry for running, Graves,’ the boy said quickly.
Graves leaned back while Mrs Martin shook out a napkin and placed it over his lap. ‘Good, the servants have enough to do without you two creating more work. Thank you, Mrs Martin.’ He looked at Susan. ‘And may I expect any apology from you this morning, Susan?’
The girl said nothing. Mrs Martin wanted to shake her. Any fool could see the girl was upset. Her eyes were damp and Anne Westerman’s nurse said Susan had been weeping since the letter from her headmistress had arrived, but she was proud as the devil himself.
‘I see. Jonathan, Stephen, we shall go to the balloon-raising as promised.’ The boys let out whoops, then sat very straight and quiet when Graves’s eye rested on them again. ‘Susan, I have spoken to Mrs Service. She goes to see an acquaintance of hers this morning who knows a great deal about female education. You shall go with her, not to Barbican.’
The girl turned towards him, her eyes wide. ‘Graves, no! It is Monsieur Blanchard! It is the same machine with which he crossed the Channel! I so want to go!’
Mr Graves only shook his head. ‘I want an apology and an explanation from you, Susan. There will be no more treats and excursions until I receive both. How can I take you into the civilised world until you know how to behave in it?’
It broke Mrs Martin’s heart. The girl stared back at her plate, breathing hard against her stays. Go steady, my dear, Mrs Martin thought, or you shall faint. After a few moments Susan spoke very quietly. ‘I have had all I wish to eat, Graves. May I leave the table?’ A bite of bread and butter was no breakfast for a growing girl, Mrs Martin thought, but it was not her place to speak.
‘You may.’
Susan left with an attempt at dignity, nodding to Mrs Martin as she did, but they all heard the choking noise she made as she began to cry the moment she was through the door, and her steps as she raced back upstairs to her room.
She must have passed Mrs Westerman on her way, for the latter came into the room looking rather distracted, and it was only William’s quick reactions that saved the kippers from being knocked to the floor as he entered with them on a tray behind her.
‘No balloons for Susan, I assume,’ she said as she sat down and Mrs Martin served her coffee from the fresh pot.
‘Good morning, Mrs Westerman,’ Graves replied. ‘No, not today. But Anne is still welcome to join us if you think she would enjoy it.’
Harriet Westerman smiled. ‘She is singing her new balloon song already. Her nurse will go with you, of course.’
‘She was singing it all last evening too,’ Stephen said, and rolled his eyes before beginning on his kipper. ‘I’m not sure it really is a song, Mama, when all she does is chant baallooon! in a silly voice.’
‘It amused you yesterday,’ she replied.
Her son grinned and swallowed whatever was in his mouth with a great sucking gulp, then waved his fork about as he answered. ‘Well, it is a bit funny, and then when we laughed she started doing it more and more. Even Susan laughed till she could hardly breathe in her frock.’
The mention of her name made everyone quiet. The fork was reapplied to the kipper. Graves cleared his throat. ‘Eustache, would you like to come and see the balloon?’
The boy looked around at them all from under his lashes without lowering his book, then sighed. ‘No, thank you, Graves.’
‘But Eustache, it’s a balloon!’ Stephen said in amazement, a forkful of kipper forgotten halfway to his mouth. ‘You can’t just want to stay here and read! We don’t even have lessons today.’ The bit of kipper fell back onto his plate and he huffed unhappily at it.
‘I can and I do, as it happens, Stephen.’ There was something about the way he spoke that made any phrase sound vaguely insulting. Clever enough to confuse his tutors at times, Eustache spoke like a boy three times his age. It could be unnerving, and such a way of watching people. Mrs Martin thought of what she had heard of his mother – beautiful, corrupted, mad – then found she could not look at Eustache any more. ‘I don’t have to go, do I, Graves?’
His guardian looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘No, Eustache, but you cannot stay in the house all day. If you do not wish to come with us, perhaps you might go with Mrs Service and Susan. At least you’ll get some air that way.’
Eustache looked back to his book and turned a page with a noisy sigh. ‘I will.’
Harriet finished her coffee and held the cup up to Mrs Martin. She went to refill it, glad to stop thinking about Eustache. Mrs Westerman had a lovely smile. It came from her eyes and made you realise she was a young woman still. Mrs Martin felt guilty about her less than charitable feelings for the young widow. The house was big enough for them all and she was a dear friend and neighbour in Sussex, so she should always be made welcome, even if she descended on them at a moment’s notice. Hadn’t Mrs Westerman saved the lives of Jonathan and Susan? Hadn’t she saved her brother-in-law from the executioner’s axe only last year? Yet here she was, polite and genteel as any woman. Let people call her wild or unfeeling. Let the booksellers and printmakers spread their sensational versions of her adventures. Let the Sussex gentry tut and fuss at her behaviour. It was jealousy. It was only natural that she could be a little eccentric, a little impulsive after all her travels and troubles. They all had cause to be grateful she was such good friends with Mr Gabriel Crowther – and Mrs Martin had never seen anything improper in their relationship. Anyone saying otherwise was a mean-spirited gossip! Mrs Westerman was a good woman who helped people. She had two handsome, kind-hearted children, an estate that produced some of the best potted fruits Mrs Martin had ever tasted, and she knew how to conduct herself with ease and charm in the best houses in the country … when she wanted to. Why, the King himself had bowed over
her hand and called her a good woman.
Mrs Martin went back to her post by the sideboard. The morning was under her control again. The kippers were being eaten with apparent delight and William was handing round sausages, not burned, to those that wanted them. Philip would have calmed down by now, and with most of the family out for the day Mrs Martin would be free to make all those necessary adjustments in the household to keep it running as well as it should.
Mrs Westerman patted her napkin to her lips. ‘William, Dido said you needed to speak to me. Perhaps you can come to my room after breakfast. Something about a body?’
It is a testament to Mrs Martin’s character that the coffee pot was not dropped a second time.
I.3
BREAKFAST DONE, HARRIET WESTERMAN returned to her private sitting room on the first floor and picked up her sister’s letter again. It could be read as an apology for interfering, for telling Harriet her business, but as she restated all her arguments and insisted on the fact that her actions were justified, it did not read as a very sincere apology. Harriet loved her sister, but she irritated her deeply on occasion. Since Rachel had given birth to a daughter and bloomed into motherhood so completely, the irritations had increased, for she seemed to believe that the event had conferred on her some ultimate wisdom. Every time she wished to criticise Harriet or her behaviour, she began her little homilies with, ‘as the mother of a daughter …’ and this drove Harriet to screaming point. She had been the mother of a daughter for many years more than Rachel – not a particularly good one perhaps, but nevertheless … She put the letter down and stared miserably out into the Square below. There was the guilt again. Harriet loved her children, fiercely, absolutely, but her world consisted of more than her son, her daughter and their interests. She sometimes thought that made her an unnatural parent in Rachel’s eyes. Perhaps charging off to London had been a mistake. She had no pressing need to be here and at least in Hartswood she had plenty to do in running the estate.
Theft of Life Page 2
